


In Need Of...

by out_there



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-10
Updated: 2008-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/"><strong>sdwolfpup</strong></a> mentioned that Alex Mahone needed a hug.  Since I'm -- in theory, at least -- using tonight to finish betaing two stories, this seemed like the perfect procrastination technique.  Set during mid-S4, but no spoilers.</p>
    </blockquote>





	In Need Of...

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[**sdwolfpup**](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/) mentioned that Alex Mahone needed a hug. Since I'm -- in theory, at least -- using tonight to finish betaing two stories, this seemed like the perfect procrastination technique. Set during mid-S4, but no spoilers.

Alex has been gone for nine hours and forty-two minutes when the warehouse door creaks open. Michael knows this because the first thing he does is check his watch when he hears the sound. The second thing he does is stand up and take three steps away from the table, hoping this isn't Agent Self with more bad news, with more rushed excuses for why the tracker isn't working, why Wyatt's trail disappeared in Sun Valley.

Third thing Michael does is take a deep breath and force himself to look towards the door, to face whatever he'll read in Self's face.

It isn't Self.

It's Alex. He's limping and his white shirt is smeared dark brown down one side. Michael wonders if he fell, imagines Alex crawling through mud. Then Alex looks up and Michael sees the red-purple splotches across his right cheek and left temple, his swollen, split lip. There are sloping cuts across his forehead, blood dried to the same colour as his shirt.

Linc and Sucre are moving, trotting down the stairs and running to Alex, yelling something that Michael doesn't hear. Whatever it is, Michael doesn't take it in. He's too busy running the opposite direction to the back door, to the docks, to Sara.

His feet land heavily on the concrete as he runs, loud enough that Sara hears him coming. She's on her feet before he catches his breath enough to say, "Alex. He's back."

Sara doesn't waste time with questions, just nods and follows. She heads for the medical supplies kept in her boat, and Michael goes straight for the communal bathroom.

The shower's already running and Linc's standing outside, saying, "Mike, it's okay. He'll be fine," but Michael pushes past him.

Michael doesn't worry about discretion or modesty as he shoves the bathroom door open and yanks the shower curtain out of the way. He doesn't give a damn what the others will think or might see.

Alex jerks around in surprise -- Alex showing obvious reactions means whatever happened was bad, really bad -- and wipes water out of his eyes. "It can wait."

"Your shirt," Michael says, running his eyes down Alex's chest, ignoring the water he can feel splattering his ankles and feet, "I saw--"

"Looked worse than it was," Alex says gruffly, and even his voice sounds rough and hurt.

But he's right, Michael realises. There are nasty bruises, old blood washing down the drain, but he can't see any cuts. No gunshots or stab wounds. Nothing that'll kill.

"Blood wasn't mine," Alex says and Michael doesn't believe it, can't believe it, not until he reaches out, presses fingers flat against Alex's ribcage, feels the muscles move as Alex breathes. "I'm okay."

"We thought--" Michael swallows. Can't say the words. Can't name the fear that Alex was gone, that Alex wasn't coming back and there was nothing he could do. "Wyatt--"

"Wyatt isn't a problem. Not anymore," Alex says, soft and intense. It makes sense: the blood, the time gone, the exhaustion from hiding a body well.

Michael wants to say that's good, wants to tell Alex they've been working on the plan, that tomorrow they'll be good to go, but his throat's tight and his feet are wet and he feels stupid with relief. All he can say is, "Alex," and bury his head against Alex's shoulder as he slides arms around Alex's back.

Michael can feel the shower soaking through his sleeves, his clothes damp from contact, wet handprints on the back of his shirt from Alex's fingers holding him tight. Hears the quiet _snick_ of the bathroom door being closed. He doesn't care about any of it.

He doesn't step back and doesn't let go, not even when Alex wraps a hand around the back of his neck and squeezes gently. Not even when Alex hums low in his throat and says, "Come on, Michael. It's okay. I'm still here."


End file.
